


Adornment

by qthelights



Category: Bon Jovi, Rock Music RPF
Genre: 80s, Anal Sex, Bed Sex, Blow Jobs, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jewelry, Love, M/M, New Jersey Tour, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie takes care of Jon, Shower Sex, Undressing, adoration, post concert, reverse costume kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Richie isn’t sure why exactly it is Jon has such an aversion to footwear, but nine times out of ten, Jon is bounding onto stage without any."</p><p>Wherein Richie likes Jon a certain way and Jon obliges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adornment

When the show starts that night, the only thing Jon isn’t wearing is shoes. 

Richie isn’t sure why exactly it is Jon has such an aversion to footwear, but nine times out of ten, Jon is bounding onto stage without any. Maybe it helps him jump higher, maybe it’s so his shoes don’t fill with sweat, maybe he just can’t be fucked. Richie just worries he’ll step on a nail or something. 

Shoes, though, are definitely the _only_ thing Jon is lacking. Even by the time the concert ends, when they’re dripping in sweat and have hair sticking wetly to their faces, the only thing Jon has lost of his stage costuming is the long coat he started the second set with. Well, _and_ part of his voice, but that doesn’t count.

The black plastic leather of his pants is still stretching shinily up Jon’s calves and thighs, drawstrings of his pants still laced obscenely over his cock beneath like a row of black stitches. The glittered scarf is still tied low across his hips, a home for the sharp cut of his hipbones, the ‘V’ of his muscles, to nestle into. He still wears the black mesh shirt, as it alternatively falls off one shoulder, torn and broken to allow skin to show, and yet pulls tight against Jon’s chest as well, the wet darkness of chest hair peeking from behind as it stretches down to his belly.

Still on is the leopard print scarf tied around his neck and soaked through at the back by sweat-heavy hair. Still on is the skull and crossbones bandana around the crown of his head. Still on are the bracelets and the bangles; the necklaces, the rings, the drops of diamonds from one ear, long curve of tusk from the other. 

Everything but the shoes.

Jon is still hyped after the concert and the amphetamines needed for it, bouncing and hugging and high-fiving all over the place. His grin is a permanent fixture on his face, gums showing and pink lips stretched wide, and it makes Richie _itch_. He wants to lick it. Lick Jon’s smile. Desperately wants to push Jon up, or down, against the nearest hard surface and peel back the layers. 

The ride to the hotel is interminable. He’s already hard, has been since halfway through the first encore when Jon started doing erotic calisthenics on the dirty floor of the stage. When he screamed his way through _Living in Sin_ , all Richie could do was stare at the way his adam’s apple vibrated with the power behind it. Wish that he could feel that against his palm.

Jon is in the lead car and already at the hotel well before him. He’s gonna be pissed if Jon starts without him, if he’s so much as taken his scarf off. Fuck, but Richie wants to be the one to unwrap him.

When Richie bursts into their shared hotel room, Jon isn’t undressed. He’s still fully clothed, fully made up and fully waiting for Richie. He hardly gets the door slammed shut behind him before Jon’s jumping him. Literally. There are long leather-clad legs clamped around Richie’s waist, ankles locked at his back and a hard-on pressing into his stomach as his fingers catch and pull, threading into his sweaty, hair spray-sticky hair. And then there’s Jon’s mouth, searing itself to his in a bruising hello.

Tongues slip and teeth clash; Jon's mouth is hot, slick with hours of singing and the taste of the cheap wine he's already been hitting. Richie slides his arms, bracelets jangling, to Jon’s ass, holding him up and pulling him tight. 

Jon undulates as if bucking against the hold, becomes a wave crashing against him that threatens to topple them both, so Richie leans back, shoulders pressed hard to the door. The stability seems only to present Jon with further challenge, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck for leverage as he continues to climb him like a tree. Bracelets catch in Richie's hair, and the sharp pinching makes him groan and squeeze too tight. Jon squeaks like a child’s toy and pulls his mouth away from Richie's with a wet smack.

"Fuck," Richie gasps as, without the succubus of Jon plastered to his airways, he gains the ability to breathe again.

Jon grins and unhooks his ankles, slithering back to earth in a groan of leather on leather. "That's the plan."

“Better get you out of this, then,” Richie says with a wave at the stage clothes Jon wears. He toes off his own boots as he pushes Jon towards the closest bed. 

"I look fucking hot in this outfit, all the groupies say so.” Jon grins as the back of his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it with a bounce, hair splaying out in a halo around his skewed bandana.

“The groupies just wanna get in your pants." 

Richie crawls over Jon's prone body and takes the ends of the sparkly scarf tied around Jon’s hips in his fingers, starts to untie the knot.

“So do you.” 

“Nuh-uh." He pulls the scarf out from under Jon in one long sweep. It joins his boots on the floor and he moves to his next task, fingers fastening on the laces at Jon’s crotch. “I wanna get you _out_ of your pants.”

One lace is pulled, then the other, Jon’s chest hitching in response as he watches and a full-body wriggle going through him. 

“Yeah, that’s totally different,” Jon says, sarcasm dripping, pressing his hips up off the bed and his erection into Richie’s fingers.

Richie pushes his palm to the bulge and rubs against it obligingly. The moan it elicits from Jon, hitching and salacious, goes straight to Richie’s own cock still trapped in his pants. He wants badly to shuck them, lose all the clothes he’s got on. He’s wearing significantly less than Jon’s accoutrements - long sequined coat tails, peace sign singlet, leather pants with the stars up the sides - but they’re restrictive nonetheless. He wants to divest Jon of his clothes more, to unwrap the body lying before him and reveal its secrets. 

“Soon, Kidd,” Richie soothes, sliding his hands to Jon’s hipbones and holding him down. He rubs his thumbs into the grooves angling to Jon’s cock, bracelets clinking softly with his movements. He leans down to kiss at Jon’s lips in apology for ending the handjob action so early. 

Predictably, Jon tries to push up into his mouth, take control of the kiss, so Richie sucks Jon’s bottom lip into his mouth, marvelling at the soft fullness before giving it a quick nip of teeth and pulling back out of reach. Jon rolls his eyes - he knows Richie’s routine - and flops back on the bed. “Go on, then, you sick fuck,” he grouses.

It’s what he’s been waiting for, Jon’s submission, or at least his permission, and Richie rewards it by following Jon’s treasure trail down his belly to the flat of his abdomen, sliding his fingers into the laces of Jon’s pants and tugging them loose. Jon squirms at the pressure so near to where he wants it, but Richie just slides his fingers under the leather, in against the slick skin, and begins the tug-of-war that is removing leather from wet flesh.

Inch by inch, the sweet grooves of muscle and bone show themselves, curving down towards Jon's cock as if a road map of anatomy showing the way. Richie leans down, following the grooves to either side of Jon’s pelvis with tongue and fingers, kissing and sucking pink bruises as each new piece of skin is exposed.

The open fly of the unlaced pants and Jon’s absence of underwear make it easier to navigate around an erection, but Jon helpfully lifts his hips anyway, allowing Richie to pull the leather out from under his ass and yank it down his thighs. Richie watches Jon shiver as the cooler air of the hotel room hits his damp skin and goose bumps spread down his thighs. He wants to rub against them like a cat, warm Jon up and smooth the cold away, and he will, but first things first. With a foot on the floor and a firm tug, he gets Jon’s pants over knees and calves, finally freeing Jon completely as they slip over his bony ankles and stage-filthy feet. 

He makes quite the picture, splayed out on the bedspread, legs naked, cock hard and red and curving towards his stomach, still a clothed and made-up rockstar up from the waist up. Richie’s own cock jerks within its confines at the sight. Jon is never something he’s going to get tired of looking at, he’s sure of it. 

Jon looks up at him from kohl-smudged eyes, impatience raising his eyebrows into his shaggy bangs. Richie snorts, shrugs off the coat he wears. It puddles to the floor, a black void of night sky glittering on the carpet.

There's a pause as Richie stands at the ends of the bed, drinking in the sight of Jon half-undone. Jon watches back as long as he has patience for, Richie presumes, and then cooly, calculatedly, props one arm beneath his head, dark thatch of hair under his arm drawing attention as he snakes his other arm down skin until his hand curls around his cock. 

Richie not losing it is a pretty near thing.

“Hey,” Richie chokes out as soon as he can without his voice breaking embarrassingly.

“What?” Jon moans, low and dirty, all show. His fingers tighten around himself, rings glinting as he works his hand up and down, head of his cock slipping in and out of the circle of his fingers...

“You’re cheating,” Richie growls. He pounces back onto the bed, scrambling to swat Jon’s hand away from himself. 

Because he can’t _not_ , it isn’t even an _option_ , he bends over Jon, takes the hot flesh of Jon’s cock in hand and sucks the head into his mouth.

This time, Jon’s moan is real, strangling out around tired vocal chords. 

Jon is bitter and already leaking precum against Richie’s tongue. Given they’ve been on stage for three hours, sweating their asses off in unbreathing synthetic leather, giving head was not really what Richie was planning for right now. He finds the musky earth scent of Jon’s sweat strangely erotic, but even he has his limits. 

With a last swipe of his tongue across the slit, he pulls back, continues to lazily jerk Jon off as he settles his leather-clad knees to either side of those long bare legs and sits back on Jon’s thighs.

Jon’s getting that pleading look in his eyes, pupils round, still dilated from the earlier speed and current arousal, and desperate for Richie to up the pace. “Riiiccchh,” he pleads, drawing out the name in an appeal to Richie’s soft spot for him. It nearly always works.

Richie clucks his tongue. 

“Not until you're _you_.” He waves his unoccupied hand at Jon’s upper body.

“Then get me out of this shit,” Jon snaps, yanking at the material around his head and then yelping as the bandana proves itself knotted into his hair.

“Shhh." Richie takes pity on him, letting go of Jon’s cock and reaching over to carefully unwind the strands of hair with the same care he would take fingering chords. The bandana soon joins the rest of Jon’s costume on the floor.

Leaning down, elbows to either side of Jon's head, Richie kisses him softly, allowing himself to revel in the soft pout of Jon’s lips. He nudges his nose against the tip of Jon’s before continuing his gentle ministrations, sliding the long tusk earring out of Jon’s right earlobe and then concentrating on removing the backing of the dangling diamonds on the left. His callouses make it difficult to feel, but he gets it eventually, fingernails catching and sliding it back off the post. He places both on the nightstand as Jon watches him with dark eyes, silent.

The scarf at Jon’s neck is next, leopard-print chiffon and utterly ridiculous, yet on Jon, undeniably hot. Richie doesn’t get how something that belongs on his mother and her ladies who lunch can possibly be _sexual_ , and yet Jon makes it so.

Richie’s necklaces fall forward as he holds himself above Jon, gaudy crosses clinking against Jon’s crescent moon and Slippery pendants. Jon’s breath is moist where it puffs against his cheek while Richie concentrates on relieving him from yet more bonds. He knows Jon’s erection must be caught between them, but Jon holds still, makes no move to press up into him and relieve the pressure. It makes Richie love him just a little bit more, that Jon just waits. 

The scarf falls away, another bit of fantasy, of masquerade, shed. The necklaces are quickly removed, with only slight fumbling at their clasps, and in their place is Jon’s throat, bare and tan, and Richie sucks at the chorded tendons, slides his tongue into the dips and follows the bumps of Jon's windpipe with relief. Jon presses his head back into the sheets, baring his throat further for Richie’s mouth, little mewling sighs vibrating from within that threaten to do Richie in.

He _really_ needs to get Jon naked.

Richie sits up and Jon immediately foists his wrists up to him, pressed together like he’s waiting for the officer to slap the cuffs on. Of course, the opposite happens, Richie dutifully sliding the silver cuff off Jon’s left wrist. The thinner mess of bracelets off the right. They go sliding like dominoes when Richie places them on the nightstand with the abandoned earrings, a soft jangle of cheap metal slithering across wood.

Quick kisses to the fragile bones of Jon’s wrists and Richie begins on the rings adorning Jon’s fingers. The first two he slides off, a plain gold one and the large, intricately spiky silver one. The third one, in the shape of a horse, sticks, and Richie sucks the finger into his mouth, swirls at the metal with his tongue until he can scrape it gently across the knuckle with his teeth. The last one is a cheap brass thing, and the sweat and its dimestore alloy has conspired to leave Jon with a dark green loop around his finger. Richie rubs at it with his thumb and forefinger, annoyed at its marring of Jon’s skin. 

It won't come off, and Richie frowns, irrationally upset at it. 

“Hey, it’s alright, Mookie. It’ll fade.” Jon is watching him, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I know," he says, and it sounds defensive. He feels silly, exposed and caught in his Jon-centric vulnerabilities, but Jon just smiles fully and reaches up to brush Richie's bangs out of his eyes.

Richie fidgets in Jon's gaze, slides his hands behind Jon’s shoulder blades to pull focus, and drags him up to divest him of the final travesty. Jon helps, and together they manage to pull the stretchy black mesh off without ripping further holes in it. Not that anyone would notice.

Pink spots are sprinkled down Jon’s ribs on one side, the legacy of the shirt he started the night in, whose bright flamingo sequins have run in the sweat. Richie rubs at them as Jon lays back down, satisfied to find they come off with more ease than the copper ring around Jon’s finger. 

Jon snickers and twists sinuously away from Richie’s fingers, ticklish and loathe to admit it. Of course, all that does is offer up glimpses of back and naked ass to Richie’s gaze. Not that he wants to tickle either of those. Lick the salted sweat off them? More likely.

“Are you done?” Jon asks, lying back and shivering as Richie draws the tip of his index finger down Jon’s arm from steer horn to wrist.

“Just gettin’ started, baby,” Richie purrs into the shell of Jon’s ear.

“Asshole,” Jon grouches, but even he can’t stop the shudder that wends its way down him.

Jon reaches out and catches his fingertips in between the leather cuff on Richie’s wrist, uses the hold to tug Richie down. He goes willingly, now that Jon is naked and _his_ beneath him. He kisses him as Jon snakes his hands up under Richie’s loose singlet and digs blunt fingernails into his back.

Allowed to, Jon now moves freely, turning insatiable in Richie’s arms. He wriggles and presses up into Richie’s body as they struggle to keep their mouths together. Richie slides one of his legs in between Jon’s, giving him something to rub off against, but Jon protests after only a couple seconds and pulls his mouth from Richie.

“If I have to have my clothes off, so do you, my dick is fucking sticking to your pants, man.” Jon’s eyes are accusing and the pout of his lips so delicious that Richie can’t help but laugh, ducking his face into Jon’s throat.

“How about I let you stick it somewhere else?” he teases, enjoying the groan that vibrates up Jon's throat. He deviates from his own suggestion, though, pulling back to slide down Jon’s chest.

Jon’s nipples are puckered and dark, nestled amongst the wet swirls of chest hair, and Richie bends, taking one into his mouth and worrying at it with teeth and tongue. The reaction is immediate, Jon hissing and arching into his mouth, fingers flying to Richie’s hair to keep him put and strong bare thighs wrapping around Richie’s middle. He’s pretty sure he can feel Jon’s cock poking up under his ribs.

Richie’s favourite part of their post-concert ritual is getting to have Jon like this, so needy and open. He slides a hand up between their chests, fingers slipping in sweat, and thumbs at the neglected other nipple, causing Jon to mewl and inciting a line of swear words. 

“Richie. _Rich_ , you gotta get…” Jon’s sentence devolves into a moan as Richie bites down on the nub between his lips. 

He pulls off with a pop, props his chin up on Jon’s chest, teases him by pressing down against Jon’s trapped erection. “Gotta get what, baby?” 

“God.” Jon throws his head back into the bedspread in a mane of hair before flinging his legs off Richie and bucking him off entirely. “Get out of your goddamned clothes!” 

For a second, Richie contemplates teasing further, working Jon into a froth of desirous impatience, but one look at the way Jon is staring at him, so full of wanton, simple need, and Richie buckles like a railway track in the sun. He scrambles, just as suddenly in need of skin on skin as Jon, rips his singlet over his head and flings it across the room.

He almost falls off the bed trying to get his pants off, but he eventually manages despite Jon’s ineffectual “help,” which is little more than a pawing at Richie’s body. His briefs following, and then Richie is back, plastered against Jon shoulder to thigh and groaning in relief.

“You’re so weird,” Jon complains even as his hands slide up and around Richie’s back.

“And you’re mean,” Richie retorts with a kiss to Jon’s nearest cheekbone. He reaches between them and encases both their erections in his hand. Jon moans, immediately beginning to thrust in little abortive twitches. Jon’s cock is velvet soft against Richie’s palm, against his own dick. The feel of it against him as Jon pushes and pulls is amazing, and Richie tightens his grip.

He’s already on the edge at just the _idea_ of Jon, let alone the _reality_ , and he muses that part of the reason he takes so long savouring the undressing is that once they get there, there isn’t any stopping to savour a damn thing until the aftermath.

“You like it when I’m a bastard,” Jon gasps, not even really trying to make conversation so much as not being the one to end the last one. Jon does like to talk.

Richie chuckles. “You’re always a bastard, how would I tell the difference?”

“Funny, Sambora. Real funny.” 

Precum is slicking the way between their cocks in Richie’s hand, but it isn’t enough for true movement so Richie lets go, rolls quickly to the side while Jon curses a blue streak, and locates his bag where one of them kicked it partially under the bed that morning. Lube and condoms achieved.

He kneels between Jon’s legs, holds up the foil packet. “Me or you?”

Jon chews on his bottom lip a second, thinking. “Me, but from here. Tired.”

Richie nods ’cause he knows _exactly_ how that will go, and tears the wrapper. He reaches for Jon and rolls the condom down the hot length of him. Jon watches as Richie grabs the lube and drizzles it into his hand, slicks Jon’s cock with the slippery wet. He should have taken off the bracelets and cuffs on his own wrists; there’s no getting them off now without someone losing an eye or things getting really messy.

“You ready?” Richie checks, even as he sidles upwards, knees to each side of Jon’s stupidly trim waist.

“Would you just fucking _fuck me already_ ,” Jon growls.

“Such a mouth on you,” Richie says fondly before he re-lubes his fingers and reaches back to prep himself. 

As always, Jon’s eyes go wide at the action. Not that he can see that much from where he is, but Jon’s always had a good imagination. He can no doubt feel the phantom press of of Richie’s fingers as if they were his own, cold with slick, sliding and opening, pushing in; a delicious intrusion. A few strokes is all Richie needs - mentally he’s been ready for over an hour - his body isn’t going to reject Jon. Wiping the remaining lube on the bedspread, he braces one hand against Jon’s shoulder and guides Jon’s cock with the other as he sinks down, eyelids falling shut as he’s filled.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to find Jon with _his_ shut, face screwed up in concentration. Jon flails blindly and grabs onto Richie’s biceps, hands clawing and fingertips digging in as he adjusts. Even though Richie’s the one being stretched, the moment seems to overcome Jon _more_ , and it’s a good few seconds, Jon’s eyes closed and mouth parted, before his face relaxes into blissed-out peace and his eyelashes flicker to reveal familiar blue.

Jon’s nod of consent could almost be classified as shy, which is ridiculous considering how often they do this. Richie just reaches down to brush the hair from Jon’s face again before starting a slow rhythm. In his head, it’s something bluesy, melodious and slow with a mean kick. It flits through his mind as he flexes his legs, tendons tightening and stretching as he lifts and lowers himself around Jon.

It’s Jon that ups the tempo, tugging at Richie’s hair to bring him down close. The world devolves into a swirl of heat, Jon licking into his mouth, snaking arms up around Richie’s ribcage to pull him in tight. Sweat builds between their bodies, sticking them together from chest to pelvis, and Richie’s cock slips between their bellies as he rocks. 

It’s not quite enough, so he pulls back, pushes up onto his arms to give himself leverage. The slide up is delicious and punches the breath from his lungs as he slams back, meeting Jon’s frantic upwards thrust with a smack of skin. It’s all Richie can do not to fuckin’ sing, the need to express himself bubbling up in his throat as his heart pumps and his dick throbs. 

“Fuck, Jonny, _Fuck_. Feel so good,” he moans as his thighs start to burn and Jon thrusts upwards on the downswing, pushing in just that little bit further to make Richie groan. 

Sweat is starting to trickle down Richie’s temples, his neck, his spine. Jon’s fingers slip against the flexing muscles of his back.

It’s only a matter of time, and sure enough, Jon starts twisting awkwardly, trying to make it work for him from a position of little maneuverability. “More, Rich, I need more,” Jon pleads.

“You wanna turn?” Richie asks between one grunted breath and the next. “Want to fuck me, Jonny?”

Jon whimpers. That’s the only word for it. Even though they play this game every time, Jon never seems to be manipulating the scenario, as if every time he _genuinely_ thinks he’s going to sit still and let himself be fucked. Richie knows better.

He leans down to envelope Jon in his arms, holds him tight to his chest and rolls them over with what feels like superhuman effort. Jon lands on top of him, barely keeping inside as he settles between Richie’s legs.

Seconds later, Jon’s propped up on his arms, and he slams into Richie with the force of a freight train, rocking him upwards on the mattress and Richie’s hair pulling painfully where it’s caught under his own shoulders. He doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“Jesus Christ.” Richie splays his knees to give Jon as much room to work as possible. 

Jon grins cheshire wide as he begins to thrust abortively, strokes frenetic and rushed as he chases the edge. “I prefer Elvis.” 

“Long live the King, baby,” Richie concedes, slides his hands up to thread through Jon’s hair and clasp around the back of his neck. He can feel his own cock getting harder and harder as Jon ignites the nerves inside him, the feeling of release building, hurtling him towards the precipice.

“Jonny, God, you’re so good,” Richie groans, his interlaced fingers hurting with how tight he’s pushing them together.

Jon doesn’t stop, pounding into him like the goddamned Energizer Bunny, an endless repetition of sweet ecstasy, pushing Richie closer and closer. Jon’s grunting softly in exertion, sweat falling from his brow and hitting Richie’s chest in hot drips. It’s fucking hot.

Jon can always tell when Richie's getting close. He claims Richie makes the same faces he does when he makes love to his guitars, that he starts to groan in full lyrical melodies. Richie doesn’t know if that’s true, but Jon _does_ seem to always know when he needs him.

Case in point, Jon’s reaching between them, hot fingers wrapping around Richie’s dick, and it’s so tight, so good, and he can feel Jon’s pelvis slapping against his tightening balls as he leans over, and really, there’s only so much a guy can take. The pleasure ripples through him, tightening and singing, and his body flies away from him, cock jerking in Jon’s hand as he comes, splattering his own stomach with a wail. 

And okay, maybe that was somewhat musical.

He comes down,shuddering and happy, to Jon leaning against him, mouth hot at his ear, whispering soothing nonsense. “Yeah, that’s it, Mookie. Came so good for me.” Jon pulls back, getting a better look at him. “Feel better now?” 

Richie reaches up and traces Jon’s bottom lip with a fingertip. “You know it, baby. Now how about you?”

Jon’s gaze slips sideways, away from his, and Richie’s heart hurts, just a little, that Jonny still feels ashamed of something so silly. “Hey, look at me,” he murmurs softly, tilts Jon’s face back to him with a finger to his chin. “Not close?”

Jon shakes his head, brow furrowing. 

“Well that’s not a problem, ’cause Richie’s here to fix you right up.”

Jon rolls his eyes at Richie’s brazen tone. “You’re such a loser.”

“I love you too,” Richie retorts, laughs as Jon smacks him in the side. “C’mon. Shower.”

Jon looks surprised at the proposed change in location but goes with the suggestion, pulling out of Richie slowly and moving to the side to let him up. Jon deposits the condom in the trash in the bathroom as Richie crowds him up against the vanity, kissing him slow and deep, putting into the action the feelings that threaten to spill.

Jon’s pushing his still-hard cock into the crevice of Richie’s hip, quickening little thrusts that aren’t long enough to get him there. Richie can tell he wants to come, that the drugs are making it difficult, but he knows how to play Jon just as well as he does his six-string ladies. He’ll make him sing, of that he has no doubt.

Turning the water on in the shower and leaving it to let the heat build, he quickly returns his attention to Jon. He mouths at Jon’s throat, nips and sucks at the soft underbelly of his jaw. Jon’s breath is hitching, breathy and needy. Richie wants to make him feel good, but he’d be lying if he said he couldn’t listen to that sound forever. Especially knowing he’s causing it.

Steam is swirling around them, heating up the small room, and Richie leans back into the shower to adjust the temperature. Turning back, he’s met with Jon’s hands on his skin, fingers wrapping around his wrist and deftly sliding off the bangles. Jon then removes the leather cuff with avid concentration, places it carefully on the sink with the bracelets before turning to the rest of Richie’s stage jewelry. Earrings, rings and necklaces gone, Richie is finally as naked as Jon.

Richie shuffles backwards and tugs at Jon’s hand, pulling him into the shower with him. He groans in sheer relief as the hot water hits his tired and achy muscles. Jon pushes in under the spray, displacing Richie’s place and turning instantly into the spitting image of a wet dog as the height of his hair is plastered down into wet, soppy locks.

Richie chuckles and gets a pissy look, its effect somewhat mitigated by the fact that it comes from a wet Cocker Spaniel. “Oh, come on, you’re gorgeous, dahhling,” Richie drawls over the sound of the water, and laughs that much harder.

“I thought you were meant to be taking care of me?” Jon pouts and presses his erection into Richie’s thigh in reminder and a not so subtle ploy to angle for more of the water spray.

“Oh, I will, Jon-boy,” Richie says, grabbing the soap from the dish. It’s pink and smells like roses. It’s very un-rock’n’roll. 

“I’m not a fucking Walton,” Jon whines as Richie lathers the soap up in his hands.

“I dunno, man,” Richie muses, “you do have that wholesome American teen thing going on.” He transfers the soap foam to Jon’s shoulders. His skin is hot from the water, which Jon is currently managing to get most of. Richie slides the soap downwards over his biceps and tatts, still downwards more to Jon’s bony wrists.

“I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face minutes after you had my dick up your ass,” Jon says petulantly.

Richie laughs as he re-lathers and slides the suds down Jon’s front, flicking at his nipples as he goes. He washes away the sweat and grime from the concert, the evidence of their activities. His own come dilutes in the water, showers away down the drain like milky water. “You’re so whiny when you haven’t gotten off.”

“You would be too if you were rock hard for hours.”

“I can think of worse things,” Richie says, slides his hand around said cock and beginning to gently jack Jon off.

Jon moans and arches into Richie’s touch. “S’like fucking torture, dude.”

Richie smiles and ducks through the spray to kiss Jon gently, keeps his one hand slowly stroking him. “It’s just the speed, Jonny. You know it’ll wear off once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“It’ll wear off when I can shoot my load.” 

“Patience, Kidd. Patience.” Richie gives Jon one more stroke before he drops to his knees, soaping down Jon’s legs. “Feet,” he says, and Jon obediently presents him with one foot like Cinderella at the fucking ball.

The dirt and God only know what else sluices down the drain as Richie soaps it clean. A tap on the side of his calf, and Jon puts the one foot down, gives Richie the other. The Jesus comparison is not lost on Richie, though their roles are undoubtedly reversed. Jon’s way more of a saint than he is.

He soaps back up the insides of Jon’s leg, feels the soft hair going against the grain along his fingers. He gently cleans Jon’s balls, works his fingers back to soap up the crevice behind. He only teases a little.

Pulling Jon into the spray, he rests his chin against Jon’s stomach, arms around the back of his thighs. Richie closes his eyes to the water falling into them. Jon’s hands find his face and Richie can feel his thumbs pushing his wet hair out of his eyelashes, off his forehead. Gentle fingertips massage into his his hairline. 

Keeping his eyes tightly closed, only the gentle red of light filtering through his eyelids, Richie nuzzles downward until he finds Jon’s cock by touch of skin alone. He slides his lips along the hot length of Jon’s erection until he gets to the head, hot water dripping off it in rivulets, and then opens to it, lets Jon slip inside. Jon’s fingers tighten in his hair and Richie smiles around him. 

The trick, he’s found, is to gentle Jon to orgasm. Remove the psychological barrier of not being able to come _now_ and _fast_ and let him overcome the physical one in turn. Slowly, he laves his tongue around the head of Jon’s cock, teasing at the slit, then sucking hard. He swirls and pulls with the tip of his tongue before alternating with its flat around the curves, caressing the sensitive skin. 

Jon sighs and Richie can feel him letting go, Jon’s leg muscles under his hands softening and relaxing. He drops his mouth down further, takes more of Jon’s cock. The muscles tense back up, but in a different way. A good way. He increases the pull of his mouth, loving the feel of Jon against his tongue, loving Jon. Sliding his hands back front he gently presses at Jon’s balls with the flat of his palm, uses his other to encase the base of Jon’s dick, forefinger to lips.

The noises Jon’s making are increasing; soft, almost pained little cries. Richie knows the sound of them well, though, and it’s not pain that Jon is expressing. Relaxing his lips, his throat, he takes in more of Jon, removes his hand to let him know he now has control. Jon takes it, fingers sliding firmly into Richie’s hair and taking control of the pace, fucking slowly into Richie’s mouth.

The head of Jon’s cock hits the back of Richie’s throat and he swallows convulsively, forces himself to relax and let Jon in without gagging. Water continues to cascade down and Richie struggles for a second not to open his eyes to it, not to inhale it through his nose as the angle changes with Jon’s cradling of his skull. 

Jon must realise it because he leans back, pulls Richie with him out of the spray. He doesn’t stop the slow languid fucking, though, and Richie wouldn’t have let him, anyway. He can feel the tension ratcheting up in Jon, the way he seems to stiffen against Richie’s tongue. He hums around him as Jon’s breathing hastens and his fingers pull into tight fists of Richie’s hair. A last tighten and twist of his lips around the head, and Jon breaks, a strangled cry falling from him as he bursts, salty-warm against Richie’s tongue. 

Richie stays on his knees, suckles Jon softly as he comes down until Jon pushes him away from his sensitive spent cock. Opening his eyes and blinking at the sudden increase in light, he rises to his feet, wincing as the muscles in his legs threaten to cramp. Jon sways into his arms and Richie finds himself holding up most of his sodden singer’s weight as Jon turns into a human-sized rag-doll.

“That feel better, baby?” he murmurs against Jon’s hair, hands swiping soothing strokes up his spine.

“Mmhhm,” Jon hums, tired and lax with exertion.

“Good.” Richie nods, mostly to himself. He considers taking care of the semi hard-on he’s now sporting, but can’t be bothered, frankly. Ditto washing his hair properly. Or Jon’s. It may not be clean _per se_ but the hair spray is probably gone.

The one concession he makes to not leaving the shower immediately is to swipe at the eyeliner under Jon’s eyes, removing it as best he can without makeup cleanser while Jon squints at him through the spray.

Satisfied, he shuts off the shower and gets them out and semi-dry before they cocoon themselves in the other bed.

Jon immediately snuggles up to him, top leg flung across Richie’s thighs and face tucked into his throat. His hair is cold and damp where it lies against Richie’s skin.

Without the getup, without the makeup and sparkles, the plastic and chintz of the stage, Jon always seems somehow younger to Richie. 

More like the kid he fell for when they started and less the increasingly seasoned and jaded showman. The glamour gets them the girls and the girls get them the money. The money lets them play. That’s just how it is, but Richie doesn’t have to like it. Not all the time.

Tomorrow, Jon will don the robes and rites of a rock star once again. And just like this one, Jon will most likely start the night in everything but his shoes. 

But he’ll end it as nothing but a pale expanse of skin in Richie’s arms.

And Richie can make his peace with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Nanoochka for the sanity check and Steph for the insanity check :)
> 
> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://qthelights.tumblr.com)!


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